Wildfire
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: The night of the Blackwater, Queen Sansa disappears. The minstrels sing of a vicious, insane boy-king, a beautiful young queen, and the covetous dog who stole her away amid the wildfire. Lyanna Stark had her beautiful Prince Rhaegar; Queen Sansa has her burned Hound... A SandorSan love-story. M for later...
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.** : Let me preface this story with the fact that I _love_ Rory McCann's portrayal of the Hound: I can't wait for the final season and his reunion with both Arya and Sansa! For the purposes of this story, though, I was looking at images of the Hound drawn by fans and I was scrolling _Pinterest_ and came upon Norman Reedus' Daryl Dixon. Just the way his hair was falling into one eye, half-covering his face, I was like - that's it! That's him! That's Sandor Clegane. So Norman Reedus/Daryl Dixon is the inspiration for Sandor's appearance, within this story. Mostly because Rory McCann finds 'SanSan' uncomfortable as Sophie Turner's young enough to be his daughter!

The premise of this story is that Sansa and Joffrey were married when Sansa was sixteen, before Robert died and Ned was executed. I've decided to alter Sansa's way of handling things, when Tyrion tells Jon that Sansa's cleverer than she lets on, I want to show a little more of that, Sansa actively taking a role in the game rather than being dragged around the board by her skirts.

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 _ **Wildfire**_

 _01_

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"Enough!"

Cream and copper flickered in the corner of his eye.

The copper of her hair, kissed by fire, vibrant and brushed to a high polish, in disarray around her face; the cream of her skin turned foul with angry welts and bruising of varying stages of healing, an array of colours, purplish green and sickly yellow, all over her shapely woman's body from her neck to her toes.

The King liked her pretty, had never ordered her face marred since the first time he had Ser Meryn strike Sansa, that afternoon on the bridge, her father's head gaping down at them from a pike.

Now Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard glared over at him, raising his blade higher to strike the Queen, already prone on the dirty floor, bleeding and winded. He could hear the soft rustle of expensive Qartheen velvets and silks behind him, Joffrey rising from his ugly throne in outrage.

It was enough. The girl had collapsed to the floor, naked as the day she was born, her shining hair glinting like copper and rubies in the hated firelight and the blood-red light through the stained-glass windows behind the Iron Throne. The red glass stained the floor, stained the Queen an angry red. He wondered if her gods were angered.

He charged forward, finally at the end of his tolerance, sword unsheathed, to block the blow; he saw Trant's stunned look, replacing the usual impotent rage.

"You dare bare steel against your Lord Commander?!"

"I dare bare my steel against a craven fucking cunt," Sandor growled, and Trant's face mottled red and purple with rage, "who can only get it up when he's beating little girls." He shot a sly, sidelong look at Joffrey, who blanched, staring slack-jawed at them.

"You'll suffer for this, _dog_ ," Trant spat.

"No, I won't," Sandor grinned back. The duel took no time at all; Sandor Clegane was the second most brutal warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, sworn-shield to the King and Kingsguard for a reason. He was a big fucker and hard to kill: little cunts like Trant were fodder, not worthy of protecting anyone. The court darted away from them, pressed against the walls, cowering, leaving the naked young queen prone on the floor.

But Sandor knew she was there, kept her to his back…protecting what was precious.

A few brutal clashes of their swords, and blood sprayed as Sandor sank his sword through immaculate Kingsguard armour, through Trant's shoulder, slicing through his breastbone like a wedding pie. The Lord Commander's sword dropped with a loud clang, and the knight crumpled to the floor in a clatter of chain-mail and plate armour.

The effort hardly made it worthwhile; it was the principle. He wrenched his blade from Trant's torso, stooping to wipe the blood off his sword with Trant's white cloak, sheathing it.

"By the gods!" someone cursed.

The little bird stirred on the dirty marble floor, not at the sound of the voice, or the shocked murmurs whispering around the throne-room, not from the soft weeping of those who sympathised with the pretty young queen and were too frightened to help her, or the gasps of the onlookers as blood seeped across the floor from Meryn Trant's mortal wound. She stirred in pain. The Queen never screamed, never whimpered in pain, never let her agony or terror show. From the moment they had met he knew she had always been and would always be a _lady_ , like the famed beauties in the songs his tiny fragile sister had loved, sucking her thumb, cradling her dolly and cuddling to his side as they listened to their nurse singing by the fireside, knitting.

She would have admired the little bird, as the little bird had the lioness - _before_.

There was an innate goodness and strength in the little bird who was really a direwolf, which the lioness had always lacked. Goodness and cleverness, tempered by terror, and a swift, brutal introduction to the realities of a cruel world ruled by the sword, by treachery and the blood of the innocent.

Her naïveté and romanticised view of the world had died with Ned Stark: Since Ilyn Payne took her father's head before her eyes, the young, Northern Queen Sansa had masked her true nature beneath a polished veneer of immaculate manners and a cool smile that never reached her lonely eyes. She was fair, and cool, a breath of sharp Northern wind still clinging to winter's chill; she was the quiet and the deceptive beauty of snow. The little Northern bird with her innocence and exquisite courtesies, who sang so sweetly.

The loss of her father had stripped the last of her innocence forever from her, as surely as Meryn Trant stripped her so often in the Throne Room - and in the Queen's bedchamber.

They were learning that the little Northern bird was resilient, and had talons, and the clever little bird was observant, subservient…the little bird would survive her captivity in this gilded cage…if the King didn't have her killed through sheer negligence.

But the little bird no longer chirped in fear. She never screamed in pain; never wept for mercy; never shivered in terror. She had learned quickly her husband's passion for cruelty, how people's fear excited the boy-king all the more. Each time he ordered the gruesome disfigurement and torture of traitors, tailors and poverty-stricken smallfolk in the Throne Room as entertainment, Queen Sansa sat on her little curved stool beside the Iron Throne, her posture perfect, her smile gentle and cold, and her eyes faraway. She did not react. And it infuriated the King.

More so perhaps even than when he visited her in her chambers. When she was stripped, surrounded, beaten, humiliated as the Kingsguard held her down - she did not squirm, did not fight, did not plead or cry, or show any emotion whatsoever. When the guards stripped her; when they laughed as they manipulated her body for Joffrey's delight; when he struggled to become erect because she was _not_ visibly terrified of him, and had the guards beat her breathless to excite him; when the overeager boy-king fumbled, slipping out of her as he tried to mount her - from behind, believing this the most undignified way to claim his bride, pinned on her stomach, unable to move or feel anything but the awkward little prick slipping out of her, prodding her thighs, her backside, the bedsheets beneath her as he grew more and more frustrated with her lack of reaction; when he bit her nipples, had Trant flog her backside; when he had his favourite tormenter pin her down by the throat with a mailed fist, hoping to elicit terror, at least a little _fight_ as he took her while she suffocated, she never let out a sound…

The King's abuse of his young bride was ongoing and public. This was not the first instance Queen Sansa had been beaten and stripped, humiliated and abused for her husband's amusement.

All it had garnered was sympathy for the Northern queen, so young and pretty, so unfailingly courteous. The whole court, everyone gathered there, could see the healing wounds inflicted by Joffrey's command onto his beautiful bride; the welts and sores, the perfect creamy skin marred by healing bruises, her neck red-raw, her bruises angry and painful; but when she sat on her little chair beside the Iron Throne, no-one would know her backside was aflame from Trant's belt. She was perfect. And a perfect reminder that their new boy-king was far from it.

Yet nobody said a word against it.

In the very same room that once upon a time, Rickard Stark had been burned alive at the Mad King's command, while his eldest son Brandon strangled himself to reach his sword and free his father, Sansa Stark too was abused, to silence.

No-one dared speak out against their petulant boy-king who was excited by cruelty. Not when previous attempts at protecting their queen had resulted in an even more severe punishment for her.

No-one spoke out. He never raped his wife in court; that was solely for the King's benefit, and his favourite tormenter who liked to watch, and play. Yet the loyal dog Sandor Clegane was never invited into the Queen's chamber when Joffrey visited her. And Joffrey never visited when the Hound stood guard at the Queen's door. His protector, his sworn shield, the most dangerous killer in Westeros, King Joffrey was learning to be very afraid of Sandor Clegane, the fearsome brute who had shown Queen Sansa the only true kindnesses she had experienced since her father's beheading.

No-one spoke out, but Sandor's actions had spoken louder than words. And suddenly Tyrion Lannister looked as tall as a giant as he stalked toward the Iron Throne, his lips parted in horror as his eyes took in every detail of the abuse catalogued on Queen Sansa's once-alabaster skin, as she lay on her side, slightly curled in on herself, winded from Trant's beating; his eyes popped as he saw Meryn Trant crumpled on the floor too.

He had gone too far.

Sansa Stark had a woman's body now, her hips still slim but her breasts high and full and pretty…beneath the teeth-marks. She had a lovely waistline, and from behind, or when she was clothed, no-one would notice the slight curve of her belly. Otherwise losing weight from her treatment at the hands of her husband and his guards, it was subtle, she was not too far along to tell anyone, but Clegane noticed. He noticed everything. Despite his fumbling, the King had somehow managed to get a child on her… Unless it was one of his guards, and with the rumours circulating about his mother, especially after the slaying of King Robert's bastards, inviting his guards into his bride's chamber was the surest way for his enemies to deny Sansa's children were fathered by Joffrey himself. Bastards.

But Joffrey was not one to share his toys. Sansa was anyone's to beat and humiliate, he saw the Queen Regent's smug smile as the pretty young queen was ridiculed and made a mockery of, but to let another man fuck her? That privilege, that most degrading punishment, was Joffrey's alone to inflict on his pretty young queen… When he could manage it.

It was the horror on the Kingslayer's face that surprised him. The irreverent cunt with his famous golden looks and notorious reputation for dishonour - never a more perfect example of the hypocrisy of knighthood - had had his hair shorn close; there was now a subtle silver shimmer to the growth on his jaw, and he was plainly dressed in leathers and solid wool breeches, his new gilded hand the only indication he was a Lannister. Gilded fucking steel. The Kingslayer had returned from the battlefield, mutilated and, from what they could tell, altered within from capture and suffering.

As Tyrion the Imp waddled up to the steps in front of the throne, Jaime approached the queen, prone on the dirty floor. His jaw slack, the Kingslayer's eyes took in the healing welts and angry bruises, disregarding the pretty girl's lush figure and rose-tipped breasts. He looked upon Ser Meryn Trant, his vicious wound still gushing blood.

"You murder your Lord Commander, Clegane?" the Kingslayer said.

"I'm sworn to protect _her_ , too," he answered gruffly, nodding at the Queen. Something flickered across Jaime Lannister's handsome face as he stared at Clegane.

"Oh, dear," the Imp's new sell-sword and Commander of the Goldcloaks clucked his tongue, peering own at the wound Sandor had inflicted. "Looks like the child-beater got blood all over his pretty white cloak."

"Ser Meryn Trant. Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks. Abuser of Queens," the Imp said coldly. "Drag him outside, leave him to fester somewhere. The carrion may have a good meal from his death. Strip him of his armour first." Servants scurried forward, terrified; they dragged Ser Meryn out of court, leaving a trail of blood behind. The Imp turned to Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella - who had all her mother's beauty and none of her nature - both weeping freely, their gazes on Sansa, Tommen cuddled up to his sister as he shook with tears and grief and possibly relief: He knew the little princeling hated violence, and admired Sansa; Myrcella adored Sansa, who embroidered so beautifully, had gifted her several frocks, and sat with her in the bright, panelled Queen's Ballroom while Myrcella played her high harp. He knew they shared little cakes together on Sansa's balcony, sewing and Myrcella singing, Tommen playing with his kittens Sansa had gifted him with carved spinning-tops.

It gave Joffrey pleasure to abuse Sansa in front of them, knowing their kind, sweet natures as he did. They always wept. The Imp handed his niece a handkerchief, gave his nephew's shoulder a fortifying squeeze and a nod.

The Kingslayer sank to his knees by the queen, where she panted and bit back moans of pain, and Sandor watched him like a hawk as he reached out his one remaining hand, to tenderly tuck a lock of vibrant red hair away from her face, murmuring, " _Sansa_?"

"Someone get something to cover the Queen!" the Imp snapped, and Sandor ripped the stained white cloak from his shoulders. The Imp and the Kingslayer and the Hound. The three unlikeliest men in the Seven Kingdoms to defend the honour of their queen - and yet they were the only ones who had. The Kingslayer had gone still, trying to shield the Queen's body with his own, and as Sandor approached he realised why.

The Queen was bleeding.

She was shivering on the dirty marble floor, her eyes closed, face immaculately pretty as ever, unblemished, her body mottled with bruising, and her hands were curled into fists with the effort to hold back her whimpers of pain as sweat beaded her brow, and blood started to drip between her thighs.

"She is your _queen_! Have you no regard for her honour, her _life_?!" the Imp hissed at Joffrey. A stunted little man who spent his time drinking, whoring and reading - sometimes all at once - he was the only one who had ever told Joffrey the truth. Sandor remembered him smacking Joffrey in the great courtyard at Winterfell, had taken secret delight in it, and had warned the Imp that Joffrey would not forget. The Imp's response: " _I hope so. If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him_ …"

Joffrey needed a reminder.

Who better to do so, the uncle Imp he despised and feared, and the _King_ slayer, who had already butchered one mad king to end a war.

He had heard rumours of King Aerys, and his dutiful wife Rhaella. Every time Aerys fed a man to the fires, he visited his queen - just as Joffrey did whenever he ordered a torture or public execution in the court. He wondered how swiftly the Kingslayer would see Joffrey for what he was. The Queen Regent's eyes had been closed for years.

"Now that the Northern cowards have given up Uncle Jaime I can do as I like with her," Joffrey sneered, his tone attempting to remain irreverent even as he cast anxious looks at his stunted uncle, and terrified glances at Sandor Clegane.

His loyal dog had never acted on his own before. He had slain the King's favourite playmate in defence of the girl he adored torturing.

Half-glancing over his shoulder at the boy-king's words, Sandor stooped and draped his white cloak over the queen, clenching his jaw at the sight of her injuries up close. He had always done what he could, given her stern, kindly-meant words to strengthen her heart, toughen the polished porcelain to ivory, guarded her door to frighten the rats away in the night, stepped in when he could, without defying his king outright. He did that, she was as good as dead.

Until today. And he would kill anyone else who from this moment on laid a hand on Sansa Stark. He was Kingsguard; he was sworn to protect her, too. Even from the King.

King Joffrey loathed his uncle, but was wary of him; he would learn to fear Sandor Clegane. He was not just a glorified septa with a sword, trailing after the princeling; he was a _warrior_ , and had earned his reputation over a lifetime of killing. The little bird had learned that life was not a song; King Joffrey needed to learn that his protectors could be his deadliest enemies. Sandor Clegane was dangerous; he wanted Joffrey to think twice about his abuse of Sansa, and he would.

The Kingslayer's return had unleashed this new level of cruelty on Sansa Stark. And yet she was still queen; and should anything happen to the King in the North…Sansa was his only confirmed surviving sibling. She was the key to the North: Joffrey saw her as a disposable toy he had become bored with, she no longer played his game. He was glad of that; Joffrey was confused that he couldn't inflict terror on her, and that gave her some reprieve. But he was King, he had been told he could do as he liked, and he had seen fit to take Ned Stark's head when everyone cautioned him to pardon the Hand to the Wall…

Cruel and thoughtless…

The Kingslayer had rested a hand gently on Queen Sansa's head; she was breathless, bleeding, shivering from cold and suppressed cries of pain, and tense under the unfamiliarly tender touch. Sandor brushed the Kingslayer aside, tucking the cloak around the Queen, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

"Take her to her chambers. Stay with her there," the Kingslayer told him in an undertone. "Let no-one enter." Sandor didn't respond, didn't need to; all attention was on the Imp giving his putrescent nephew the King a lesson. His quiet question of, " _Jaime_ , did you ever tell young Joff what happened to King Aerys…?" was met with open hostility from the remaining Kingsguard and a sly comment from the sell-sword, and the Kingslayer, telling the story of the Mad King…of Rhaella…of Maegor the Cruel and his six wives, the Black Brides… Joffrey's predecessors, in many senses of the word.

Every time a Targaryen was born, the gods flipped a coin.

They had flipped a coin when Joffrey came into the world. He had heard the rumours, guessed them to be true.

Maegor the Cruel; the Mad King Aerys…

The entire court was whispering about Queen Sansa's suffering, and the grace with which she endured it; from what he had heard in the brothels and inns, the whole of King's Landing knew and adored the cool, serene Northern queen with her modest Northern clothing and simple braids intertwined with glittering chains, and her interest in the city and their welfare. The minstrels were careful in their songs, after the first few had lost their tongues to Ser Ilyn's hot pincers on Joffrey's command, but careful made people clever, and the songs of the brave young Northern king warring to save his sister from the rotten boy-king she had been married to had turned Robb Stark into a hero who shifted form into a direwolf on the battlefield, and revealed Joffrey, irrefutably, as a twisted demon monster born of incest, as mad as Aerys and as cruel as Maegor. The city had changed drastically since King Robert's rule; the smallfolk were the first to feel the effects of a new ruler.

He had heard one song from a minstrel who had happened to see Queen Sansa briefly in passing; he called her ' _primrose_ ', the dainty, unassuming, resilient winter roses that grew even in the snow. Delicate, and cold. With summer drawing to a close, the smallfolk were calling Sansa the Winter Queen, and some murmured they were glad to have a sensible Northern lass leading them through what they dreaded was going to be a long winter, after such an extended summertime. It was the longest of his memory. It was summer when the Hand's Tourney was held; and he would not forget the young Sansa Stark's smile and her standing ovation. She had risen to her feet to applaud the Knight of the Flowers, he knew, for declaring Sandor his saviour and the Tourney's champion, after protecting him from Gregor… But she had smiled nonetheless. He still had most of the gold he had won that day; but it was the memory of her smile that was precious to him.

Sandor could not recall seeing it since.

A smile full of innocence was the sweetest thing. Rare, and precious.

She had been pleased by his actions that day: She had beamed, and applauded him. And he remembered another dainty little bird chirping his praises, who sang so sweetly, proud of his sparring skill.

He looked down at the redheaded queen in his arms; there was no resemblance between her and the sister Gregor had taken from him. Nothing but his memory of their innocent smiles… And the terror and pain they had endured… His sister had died, he hadn't protected her…but the little bird…

She stirred in his arms, her eyes bleary and filled with pain and confusion as she peeked around, the colour leaching from her cheeks as he carried her farther from the court, to the royal apartments and the Queen's chambers. Her blue eyes rested on his face, and for the briefest instant, she relaxed in his arms; he heard her breath catch in pain, and she moaned, writhing in his arms, curling into herself, panting.

He punted the chamber door wide with his heavily-booted foot, carrying the Queen over the threshold, saw her lady's maid and the small flock of other maids busy tidying the rooms, tending to repairs to her wardrobe and fine things, cleaning away any sign Joffrey had visited her again last night. He would never bring Meryn Trant to her chamber again; Sandor was glad.

Whatever trouble it elicited for him, he had done his duty by her. Joffrey would either find a new playmate, or fear to continue acting as he had toward her, remembering how his dog had savaged the one brutalising his mistress.

Carefully, he laid the queen on her grand bed, as the dark-haired, exotic girl gathered her skirts and rushed over, dismissing the other maids to fetch warm water and linens and healing ointments.

"You're going to need more than possets, girl," Sandor warned her, with a sigh. The girl stared at him a moment, and realisation dawned, resignation and sadness touching her exotic features as she turned to her queen, tenderly unfolding his cloak, still wrapped around Sansa.

"Shae…" Sansa was panting, and as he took up his vigil, inside the bolted door this time, reluctant to leave, required to stay, he heard her soft moans, sharp gasps of pain, and closed his eyes briefly…

The girl was miscarrying the child Joffrey had forced upon her. The gods showed small mercies in the unlikeliest ways. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, barring the door, ensuring no-one entered without first getting through him; he disliked that Joffrey now believed Sansa Stark was disposable, wondered whether he would turn to Maegor for inspiration and take another bride, two, three? Would Joffrey cast her aside, to let his guards do as they pleased with her? Torture her, before he had her publically shamed and executed?

As sure as night followed day, he had known that it was only a matter of time before Joffrey got carried away and the girl was killed outright… He had seen it before.

Disoriented from her beating, in pain, Sansa slipped to the foot of her great bed, kneeling as if in prayer to the Seven, or to her father's nameless Northern gods with bleeding faces carved into the weirwoods, naked and grasping the thick brocade bedspread, gasping and stifling her screams, bleeding…

He admitted the maids with warm water and linens. But it was the exotic one who cared for the Queen, alone, and for the first time, he could see the trust in Sansa, to let her. She braided up Sansa's hair, mopped her brow, massaged her lower-back, her abdomen, and whispered coaxing words of strength and heartbreak as Sansa fought her own body.

He had endured pain, and snapped and snarled like any injured dog: Sansa fought through it, had trained herself not to react, and now, did not give herself even the luxury of screaming aloud as she delivered a dead child, a tiny, frail, formless hatchling; it never had a chance.

For all their fragility, women saw more blood than most men. Panting, delirious, sweaty and shaking, the Queen finally collapsed against the bed, her hands relinquishing the heavy brocade, the maid busying to tidy up the mess, wrapping the tiny child in an embroidered handkerchief. He watched Sansa's back rise and fall, relieved to see her breathing steadily, and she stirred weakly as her maid set the tiny bundle in a chamber-pot, returning to try and coax Sansa to stand.

"Help me," the girl said, glancing over her shoulder at Sandor. "There is a bath drawn for Her Grace." She pointed into one of the smaller chambers; as Sandor approached to gather the Queen into his arms once again, Shae the maid pulled the bedclothes down, a bedpan filled with lavender stuffed between the soft sheets. He gathered the Queen into his arms, and avoided the hearth-fire warming more water as he gently laid her in the large copper bathtub. The water had been perfumed; he smelled something that reminded him instantly of the snow-flecked moors around Winterfell. It was the smell of cold, of the snow. Of her home.

He took up his vigil at the door, keeping a careful eye on the Queen, her vibrant hair just visible, as the maids cleaned up the blood at the foot of the bed, picked up his bloody cloak to launder, took the chamber-pot and the Queen's dead infant away. Averting his eyes as Shae the beautiful lady's maid attended to the Queen, using a large sponge to carefully clean the Queen's bruised skin, Sandor sighed to himself.

Sansa Stark had been given a reprieve from the gods, with this dead child. He had slaughtered Meryn Trant, Joffrey's enabler and favourite co-tormenter: the Imp and the Kingslayer had returned to King's Landing to rule in Joffrey's stead and rein him in… But Sansa Stark was still the queen, and Joffrey's wife. It was her duty both as wife and queen to bear children… Soon, as Joffrey said, he would "put a son in her". Sandor heard the water sloshing as Shae helped her mistress rise from the bathtub, in the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of wet hair darkened to auburn, pasted over a slender shoulder, over one perfectly plump breast, a delicate rose-pink nipple peeking through.

His body stirred with want, and he stifled a growl of yearning.

Never had he wanted anything more than the little bird, who might just be a direwolf beneath her pretty feathers.

Her body was not made for abuse; but it was his to protect. He had draped his cloak around her, and felt it in the pit of his stomach that the act was more binding than any vow some dumb cunt had written up and wanted him to recite. He never had.

But he would protect his little bird.

The lady's maid peeked around the corner, summoning him to help again. Into the bathing chamber, he found the Queen, half-asleep in a chair by her dressing-table, and his stomach twisted, reminded so vividly of his mother… She even wore the same kind of robe his mother used to wear in the privacy of her own chamber, with loose sleeves, knotted at the waist, worn over the Queen's fine silk nightgown that shimmered translucent in the firelight from the hearth. The same fire made her combed, braided hair glow like copper. Clothed, there was no sign the Queen had been with child; he wondered if anyone had known before today that she was in delicate condition. Certainly Joffrey had shown no regard for her delicate state if so.

She rested on a chair, half-asleep, her pretty face pinched in pain, curling in on herself slightly.

"Can't sleep here, little bird," he sighed softly, reaching down, and the Queen startled, not at the sound of his voice but his touch. She peeked up, pain-drenched blue eyes captivating him, and saw who it was. In a movement that threw him back violently to his brutal childhood, the Queen raised her arms to be lifted, the same way his sister used to.

He gathered her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest, and the Queen sighed, almost content, as he carried her to her bed, the lady's maid already fussing with the bedpan and the linens. Carefully he laid the Queen in her bed, taking the covers from her maid to tenderly tuck her in.

"Your Grace…essence of nightshade, to help you sleep," Shae murmured, handing her a glass filled with lemonsweet. Dutifully, the little bird drank, then rested her head against the embroidered bolster. He made to move away; she caught his hand, and he froze.

The nightshade made quick work on the Queen, softening the pain from her pretty face, her blue eyes turning sleepy, gentle, relaxing into the great bed. She held his hand as she fell asleep, a tiny smile on her lips, a single tear leaking down her face.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Sleep, little bird. You can sing your songs to the dawn."

"Because of you…"

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 **A.N.** : I usually loathe the 'C' word but it's part of Sandor Clegane's core vocabulary, and some characters do deserve it! I love that Sandor Clegane is the unlikeliest true knight. I just want Sansa to see that.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.** : This chapter is dedicated to _magnus374_ , _Blubbsdi_ , _TheWiseQueen_ and Emily, my first reviewers for this story! Thank you so much! I really appreciate you taking the time to review - and your comments were a wonderful pick-me-up before I had to head in to work this morning!

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 _ **Wildfire**_

 _02_

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She had never been to White Sword Tower - the home of the Kingsguard. It was a slender tower of four storeys, the first dedicated to the Round Room, a whitewashed circular room decorated with white tapestries and a beautiful table fashioned from weirwood carved into the shape of a shield, surrounded by seven chairs. She wondered briefly whether the legendary queen Visenya had commissioned the table, the tapestries; she had formed the Kingsguard to protect her brother-husband Aegon the Conqueror, when he was nearly killed in the streets of the city in a Dornish assassination attempt in 10AC. Sansa remembered her lessons.

Visenya's only son had been Maegor the Cruel, who had seen his father's Red Keep built, and all who worked on it slaughtered to preserve the secrets within its walls. Only the blood of the dragon would know them, Maegor had vowed.

But secrets were like little birds; one little bird trilled and soon the entire forest was alive with birdsong.

As she had rested and healed, Shae kept her informed of the castle gossip. Stories of Joffrey's abuse of her, and the Hound's unlikely heroism in protecting the Queen from the shamed knight of the Kingsguard, had spread through the city like wildfire. There were other whispers, too, other songs: that the Hound had been beaten and locked in his kennel; that he had been tortured and executed; that the Imp had named him Lord Commander. That she was dead: That the King was going to set his Northern traitor's-daughter wife aside - or torture her, or have her publically executed - and take brides from the families of the High lords who aided his cause against the Northern armies. Sansa disregarded this; Joffrey wasn't clever enough to do such a thing. He could do as he liked with Sansa because she was alone, her brother's armies half a continent away: No father with an army at his command would tolerate the abuse of his daughter, even at the King's hands. Especially at a mad King's hands. Joffrey was in too precarious a position; the Imp, the clever Lannister brother, had to see that, even if others might think it a canny ploy to secure the loyalty of their bannermen.

Three of Maegor's brides, the widows wed to him in a single ceremony, known as the Black Brides, had survived him, when they found Maegor dead on the Iron Throne during the uprising against him. Visenya's line had ended with Maegor, who fathered no living children, only monsters and abominations. But Visenya's Kingsguard had survived her, had survived Maegor, had survived the end of the Targaryen dynasty, and become warped ever since Ser Barristan Selmy was dismissed from his post as Lord Commander.

Sansa remembered the calm, kind, white-haired older man, remembered her shame and her compassion for his hurt and anger as the King and Queen Regent insulted and humiliated him in front of the court. Ser Barristan had bled with Rhaegar at the Trident; as a sign of his respect, Robert had sent his own maester to tend to him, pardoned him, raised him to Lord Commander… Robert had recognised his honour and sacrifice.

Joffrey had no interest in surrounding himself with men who were wise, and good, and fiercely honourable.

Ser Barristan had fled from King's Landing, and Sansa had believed the last true knight in Westeros had left their shores, neither knight nor honour ever to return to the Kingsguard.

She had believed that.

And then Sandor Clegane, the _Hound_ , had crossed swords with his Lord Commander to protect her from Joffrey's sadism.

Sadism. It was a word she had heard Shae use, heard from the gossips who whispered about Joffrey's predilection for cruelty. It sounded like the sort of word Lord Baelish would cater to in the dark, unseen vaults of his brothels where every dark whim was catered to - for a price.

Sadist. The sadistic boy-king, Shae told her the smallfolk called him.

The whores he had mutilated; King Robert's bastards he had ordered butchered in the streets; his bride he abused and humiliated… A very precarious situation Joffrey had crafted for himself.

King Robert had been a drunk, yes, but Westeros had enjoyed peace and prosperity throughout his reign, marred only by an uprising her father had helped him crush with the same martial efficacy that had won Robert the Iron Throne. Seventeen years, one war: Joffrey had been on the throne days when he had ordered her father's execution in front of the mob, and Robb was winning this war Joffrey had started, and blamed others for losing.

When Rhaegar had stolen Lyanna, he at least had had the decency to fight and bleed and ultimately die with his men on the battlefield, fighting against her father, who fought for honour, and Robert, who fought for his wounded pride. Rhaegar hadn't commanded strangers to die for him. Rhaegar had died at the Ruby Ford with his men.

Ultimately it was the Kingsguard, the Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, and his brothers Ser Oswell Whent and the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, whom her father had battled and ultimately killed at Rhaegar's tower of joy, only to find his sister Lyanna dying.

She wandered around the Round Room, seeking the Book of the Brothers that Arya used to babble about - colloquially known as the White Book, which documented the unbroken history of the Kingsguard since Visenya had first created it, crafting their vows after the ancient vows of the Night's Watch - the vows her half-brother Jon Snow would have sworn before a great weirwood up in the frozen North… She rarely thought of Jon Snow, the half-brother she had treated so poorly simply because she had learned from the example set by her mother, who had envied Jon Snow's unknown mother. The Kingsguard wore white; Jon would only ever wear black. Neither Kingsguard nor brother of the Night's Watch was allowed to hold property, and titles but rarely; marriage was forbidden them, and they would never father legitimate children. The Round Room was bright, airy, a gentle breeze teasing away the warmth through sheer white drapes over the arched windows overlooking the bay.

She wondered if Jon Snow had forgotten what it was like to be warm.

She missed him. The brother she admitted easily to have loved least, the brother so like Father it had only fuelled her mother's hate for him more. Jon Snow, sad and thoughtful and motherless and fiercely honourable like Father… The Kingsguard had once been made up of men like Jon Snow, like Father. Like Ser Barristan Selmy, and the Sword of the Morning; Father had once told her Ser Arthur Dayne was the truest knight he had ever known, and Father regretted his death, and the deaths of Ser Arthur's sworn brothers. Ser Arthur Dayne had died protecting Lyanna, even from her own brother, as commanded by his prince. Father had spoken so rarely of his siblings who died in the Rebellion, but the little details, Sansa remembered. She remembered Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, true knights who had died for her aunt, for honour, just like in the songs… Only, Lyanna had died anyway.

Sandor Clegane had told her, often, that life was not like the songs. She knew it wasn't. The beautiful queen was vicious; her golden child was a monster; and the true knights, she had believed, were a thing of legend. Their like never to be seen again.

She found it, the Book of the Brothers. Every Kingsguard since the very first seven chosen personally by Queen Visenya had at least a page in the Book; it had once been Bran's dream to have his name inscribed in it, to have the septons from the Great Sept of Baelor decorate his achievements with heraldic drawings and illuminations. The great book rested on its own plinth; she undid the gold fastenings, carefully opening the book.

Bran would never have his name inscribed here: Arya could not because of her gender…

Carefully she sifted through the brittle ancient pages - some were three _hundred_ years old - to the newer ones, on fresh parchment, the illuminations exquisite and vibrant with colours, the gold and silver-leaf glittering in the sunlight peeking through the sheer white drapes over the windows.

Beyond the songs, the great deeds of knights had never interested her: Arya and Bran had clung to Maester Luwin's every word about historical battles and the legendary knights who fought in them. They had realised long before Sansa had that knights were for war, for killing, not to ask favours from pretty maidens at tourneys. Yes, Ser Arthur Dayne had been a tourney favourite, as had Prince Rhaegar; but ultimately, they were knights, sworn to protect with their lives. And protecting one person sometimes meant killing others.

She remembered the spray of Ser Meryn's hot blood cooling quickly on her skin, the gruesome sound of Sandor Clegane's blade embedding itself in Trant's armour, deep in his body. She had learned the lesson her younger siblings had understood years ago: Only death paid for life. And knights had been fashioned for death, long before the Andals had ever dreamed up chivalry.

He was rough and hideously disfigured and terrifying and Sansa Stark trusted Sandor Clegane to look her in the eye and tell her every hard truth. He always had. He was a killer who had never taken a knight's vows; and yet when the Mountain had attacked the Knight of the Flowers at her father's tourney, it was Sandor Clegane who charged forward with his sword drawn, to defend Ser Loras. She remembered the story of Sandor's scars and, dreading his fate when she had woken to find him gone, had privately grieved for the small boy playing with the little painted knight, and the vicious, honest man he had been forged into by the flames.

No-one had ever apologised to Sandor Clegane for the monstrous things done to him; why should he apologise for the monster he had become?

She would take his honest brutality over the oaths of false knights.

She had called him awful: He had retorted that it was the world that was awful. He was honest about it; that was all.

" _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face_ " he had once told her, that night of the tourney when Joffrey had ordered his dog to escort her back to the Red Keep, the night of the feast, the night Sandor Clegane had told her the story of his scarring, explaining why he allowed others to call him _dog_ but never Ser.

Sansa owed it to him to look him straight in the face.

So she had come to the tower of the Kingsguard, seeking him out.

She was just nervous to do so; he was still rough and callous and honest and that…still frightened her. It frightened her that she could seek him out, wanting - needing to see him, to assure herself that he was alive, whole, that he had not been punished for the crime of protecting her. He was the only one to have done so since they took her father's head in front of her.

Sansa still remembered the day they arrested her father, when the Hound had stalked the corridor to her, and realising that she was alone. She had been petrified: Now, she wondered if Sandor Clegane hadn't volunteered to collect her, rather than let any of Cersei's hired thugs or Joffrey's blindly obedient brutes lay a hand on her. The second most-feared man in Westeros and Sandor Clegane was the only one who had ever shown her tenderness. She still had the handkerchief of roughspun that he had handed to her that afternoon, beneath the line of pikes displaying her father's and septa's heads for the carrion to peck at, the handkerchief he had used to dab at the blood from her split lip where Ser Meryn had struck her.

She should have pushed him. Sansa wondered how the Hound would have reacted. There was no way to ask him. Even the walls had ears in the Red Keep. The Spider, Her Grace the Queen Regent, Littlefinger who had loved her mother and betrayed her father, they all kept legions of spies. There were probably a dozen reporting to Cersei this moment that Sansa was in White Sword Tower. If they could read, they'd tell her which page of the White Book she was mulling over.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, the only knight of House Dayne worthy of their greatsword Dawn, slain at Prince Rhaegar's tower of joy by Lord Eddard "Ned" Stark of Winterfell. It was even written in the pages, by Ser Barristan, she supposed, that Lord Eddard "Ned" Stark had returned Dawn to House Dayne after the Rebellion had ended, as a mark of his respect for the fallen warrior who had died in the service of his prince, honour-bound to protect Rhaegar's true love, Lyanna. There was an illumination of the pommel of the greatsword, Dawn; and a small portrait of Ser Arthur by someone who had obviously known him. He was fairly handsome, even in the little picture, with close-cut dark hair and sombre, kind eyes, and a look to him that spoke of humility: Father had once described Ser Arthur as the most lethal of the seven Kingsguard.

Her father's bones had never been returned to Winterfell, just as Ser Arthur was buried beneath a cairn formed from the stones of the tower Father had torn down. But Father had taken Dawn home to her House in Dorne; she wondered briefly what had become of Ice, her family's ancestral Valyrian-steel greatsword, over four centuries old, spell-forged in Valyria and named for a legacy from the Age of Heroes. She remembered Ice being taller than Robb, the steel dark and smoky from Valyrian spells. Father had only ever used Ice to execute traitors and deserters of the Night's Watch - and he had seen to their deaths cleanly, and himself; Winterfell employed no executioner. Their way was the old way: He who passed the sentence should swing the sword.

She remembered overhearing Father talking to Robb and the boys - Theon and Jon Snow, and little Bran - about death, and their responsibilities as future lords and wardens of Westeros: _"If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die_ …"

"Little bird's flown down from her nest," a voice growled softly, and she startled, her heart jumping inside her chest. Glancing away from the White Book, she was surprised that Sandor Clegane was so close. She hadn't heard him at all, too engrossed in thoughts of dead heroes, her dark-eyed half-brother, of lost Valyrian-steel swords. She stepped away from the book; Clegane gave her a soft glare before peering at the illuminated page.

"Ser Arthur Dayne. Sword of the Morning," he rumbled, his tone almost mocking.

"My father killed him, during the Rebellion. Rhaegar stole Lyanna; Ser Arthur and his brothers died protecting her, after Rhaegar was killed at the Ruby Ford," Sansa said quietly, her eyes resting on the illuminated page as Sandor peered over it. She rested a hand on his arm. He felt it, and glanced up.

Daring herself to, she licked her lips, and reached up, to comb the dark hair away from his face. She steeled herself to do as she had vowed she would, and look him in the face, without fear, without pity, without disgust. She saw up close how angry and painful-looking his wounds were - however many years later, decades, perhaps, the slick black flesh was still cracked and pocked with craters, oozing red and sore. He would never heal; the scars extended down his throat, and she wondered how he could tolerate his armour and cloak chafing against his neck. He was lucky to have kept his eye, which was grey - the grey of the sky before a storm - but there was a twisted mass of scarred skin around it. Bone showed at his jaw where the skin had been blistered and burned away.

It was no wonder his huge courser was called Stranger: Sandor Clegane had met him in the Seventh Hell and been spit back out before the fire could consume him.

It was no wonder Sandor Clegane was callous and full of rage. He had experienced, just as she had, the truth of the world in the most brutal ways. But it was his _brother_ who did it; his father who protected him. Sansa's father was gone, had confessed to treason to protect her life, the life of her missing sister Arya; her brother had raised their banners and led an army South to free Father and protect his sisters.

She took her time, taking in the angry sores, the bright white bone glinting in the sunlight as the breeze toyed with his dark hair; for a moment, she imagined his grey eyes were unnerved. She had vowed to look Sandor Clegane in the face; and she realised that in doing so, suddenly he had become far less terrifying to look upon.

After all, golden hair and fine eyes concealed a monster: Sandor Clegane's burned appearance deflected any suspicion that a heart might beat, and strongly, within that broad chest.

"Looked your fill, little bird?" he growled, but she did not break eye-contact with him, and his tone was soft, still gruff, but not as angry as she always imagined.

"You risked your life to protect me…" she said softly, finally looking down, at the fist he had balled on top of the White Book and the pictures of Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell, who had died for honour, protecting her aunt. "They died for Lyanna…" She lifted her eyes to his face again. "I am glad that you were not killed on my account."

"Were you worried about me, little bird?" Clegane asked, and his voice was gentler.

"I woke and you were gone," she admitted on a whisper, biting her lip, suddenly nervous. His eyes… She had never dared look him in the face before; now she saw those stormy grey eyes…were sad. And they watched her bite her lip, swipe her tongue across to gentle the sting. "There were whispers…"

"Little bird's been listening to songs," Clegane sighed, shaking his head subtly.

"It is not an unreasonable thing to think," she said quietly, glancing up at Clegane through her lashes.

"Thought they'd put the mad dog down?" he asked gruffly.

"You're not a dog!" she blurted heatedly, her cheeks flushing as she swallowed her nerves. She had learned to be very careful not to blurt things out, to bite her tongue and cultivate everything she said. "You are honest and true and live by a code of honour, even if you want people to think you don't!" He laughed at her. She clenched her jaw, narrowing her eyes, but lifted her chin, smoothing the pages of the White Book. " _They_ would be proud to call you brother. You've never taken a knight's oath but you act with more honour than anyone."

"I'm no true knight, little bird, no Ser Arthur Dayne, don't imagine I am," Clegane growled.

"I imagine that Ser Arthur Dayne and all his brothers had to do many things that shamed them," Sansa answered coolly, drawing herself up to her full height. He was the only one she felt safe enough to do so in front of; she made herself smaller, meeker-looking, when she was with Joffrey, especially with Queen Cersei, whose saccharine smiles filled her with dread. But Sandor Clegane - he…brought out the ferocity in her, a righteous indignation - she didn't like that he thought so little of himself, when she now thought the world of him.

Her father was gone; he would never have dreamed of Sandor Clegane for a protector for his daughter. But the Hound was loyal, and vicious to those who threatened his mistress. He was gruff and discourteous, he had terrified her, but he had toughened her to the realities of the world…to ensure she _survived_ it, just as he had been forced to. In his crude way, he was also the kindest and most honest person she had known since her father's arrest.

"Think I'm ashamed of what I've done?" Clegane half-laughed.

"Yes. You wouldn't have cared to intervene, otherwise," Sansa answered coolly, raising her chin, straightening her shoulders back. She noticed his eyes dart down to her breasts, and was startled by the shiver that stole through her, the way his dark eyes seemed to shoot wildfire through her body, to all the places she had thought had been deadened by Joffrey's abuse to the pleasure Shae had told her she could experience. Her breath came in short sharp bursts, not reaching her lungs, and she was aware of the slimmer cut of her new frock, and of his _size_.

She imagined Sandor Clegane knew what to do with a woman; and she blushed, flustered, imagining it. He was rough and brutish and truthful, and Sansa had never felt safe anywhere but near him: She wondered how it would feel to be enveloped by that safety. The flicker of flames touching her body from the inside-out at his expression had startled her; but she wanted to know how hot the wildfire could burn through her if he touched her.

She bit her lip, then licked it to soothe the sting, and tried to catch her breath as she gazed at him. His stormy eyes kept flickering to her lips, and she squirmed under the intensity of his gaze.

"You once told me," she gasped, "that sharp steel and strong arms rule this world…but I don't care what you say; you can be both a killer and a good man. Some of these men were."

"Were. They're all dead now," Clegane said, but his words had lost their heat.

"And you killed the brother who disgraced them," Sansa murmured, but Clegane heard her, reaching out to cup her chin and force her gaze higher. His hand was calloused and rough, but warm. She felt that warmth spread through her, and he seemed to bite back a curse as he released her, his eyes on her lips, perhaps he had felt the shiver steal through her, shooting straight to her breasts, to her secret, abused parts she wanted no-one near. She had never felt that before.

"The little bird should be careful what she sings…even to the dogs," he said, but there was a gentleness to his tone and Sansa didn't regret saying what she had. Ser Meryn Trant had been everything a true-knight was _not_. He had been a vicious, angry, impotent monster, and she was glad Clegane had cut him down like the rabid animal he was. Remembering his hands on her doused the fire spreading through her body at Sandor's touch… _He is dead. He is dead, and Joffrey is wary_ , she reminded herself. A fortnight since Clegane slew Ser Meryn, since she had laboured to deliver the hated offspring of Joffrey besmirching her body…Joffrey had not summoned her to court, nor had he visited her chambers, and she had dreaded that he would capitalise on the pain of her miscarriage. He had not: She had been left in peace, to heal.

"Why - how are you still Kingsguard?" she asked breathlessly.

"The new Lord Commander has declared I'm to be your protector. Jaime Lannister."

Sansa raised her eyes to his face. _Lord Commander?_ Could a one-handed man _be_ Kingsguard? It was his sword-hand Ser Jaime had lost. And…he had assigned Sandor Clegane to protect _her_?

"Me?" she breathed.

"Aye, little bird. You're not rid of me yet," Clegane promised her. "Think the Kingslayer's got _fond_ of me."

"I - I would like to ride into the city," she said, heeding his warning and her body's reminder. She belonged to Joffrey, to do with as he pleased; his uncles were returned, but she was still Joffrey's bride and queen and she would never know what it meant to be safe in Sandor Clegane's embrace. She remembered him carrying her to her chambers; in his arms alone had she felt safe for the first time in ages. She knew…he would never let anyone hurt her. Not even Joffrey.

But she still belonged to Joffrey.

She could not have Sandor any more than she could have her father back.

"Would you accompany me, please?" she asked, no longer as confident about venturing out with Clegane as she had been when she set out for the tower.

She saw the conflict flicker across his face. Had Queen Cersei given her _permission_ ; would Joffrey punish her for it; would she be in danger in the city? No more than she was within the walls of the Red Keep, she had reasoned. In her captivity, going out into King's Landing was one of her few privileges, that and visiting the godswood and the Sept of Baelor; Joffrey never invited her to go hunting in the Kingswood, for which she was grateful. His hunting parties gave her a reprieve, not just from Joffrey but his hateful Kingsguards as well. He was one less, now. Retaining Sandor Clegane had to be as much about not wishing to find a second Kingsguard replacement, as anything. How many men could match the Hound in battle? He had cut down Ser Meryn Trant with ease.

"You want to go into the city?" Clegane frowned.

"The Lord Hand thinks it a good idea," Sansa said lightly, raising her eyes to his. "King Joffrey is away hunting; the people are restless."

"The smallfolk are restless and the Imp wants you to go among them?"

"Lord Varys has told the Small Council that many in the city believe the King's… _attention_ has killed me, or that he has locked me away so he can betroth himself to another lady, or ladies," Sansa said, dabbing her lip with her tongue, glancing down at the floor. "They are angry and hungry. I need to show them that I am alive."

"Alive and well?" Clegane remarked, challenging. She held his eye, not trusting herself to answer.

"Alive must suffice," Sansa said quietly, and Clegane frowned.

Sansa was acutely aware of her position. She was queen in name only: Cersei held whatever power Joffrey hadn't grabbed at. Cersei had influence, spies, allies, and _money_. Sansa had been very careful, in the early days after Robert's death, to be seen to be subservient to the Queen Regent: to remain a step behind her wherever they walked; to bring her sewing to the Small Council meetings and appear to be attending on the Queen Regent rather than listening; to say she acted in Queen Cersei's name, or on her advice; to never provoke feelings in Cersei that her power was being usurped. Sansa was married to a king who had very quickly become despised by the people; for her own survival, Sansa needed to be…adored, but she couldn't be seen to be nurturing influence or power, not for herself.

She wasn't the obedient little halfwit the Queen Regent believed her to be, the "little dove" she mocked Sansa for being. What she did, she did in Queen Cersei's name, but it was Sansa Stark the smallfolk had often seen riding amongst them. And it was time she returned to them, bruises and all.

In the stables, Clegane saddled his own courser, the enormous Stranger. He was a warhorse, trained to bite and kick; Sansa presented him with a small apple on the palm of her open hand, and Stranger snorted, dark eyes regarding her, before he took the apple. She was unaccountably reminded of Arya, wild and untamed and fierce. She stroked his nose while he ate, and Clegane kept a careful watch even as he saddled Stranger, just in case. He treated his horse very well, she knew. Not like his monstrous brother, the Mountain, who had beheaded his horse in a rage at the Tourney of the Hand. It wasn't the stallion's fault Ser Loras had ridden to the joust on a mare in heat; but the Mountain had killed it with one swing of his sword regardless. She remembered Sandor Clegane fighting his brother to protect Ser Loras… She would never forget that day. It was the first time she had seen death; the first time she had realised tourneys were not like the songs; it was the night Sandor Clegane had taken her back to the Red Keep and told her the story of his scars. It was her Father's tourney, the one he wanted no part of; but he had sat with her, as they watched the jousts, and Ser Loras had given her a red rose, before Sandor Clegane saved his life, and Ser Loras had named him the champion. It was Ser Loras she had been cheering then; now, she was glad she had risen to her feet and cheered Ser Loras' champion.

He did not want anyone to know it, but Sandor Clegane had the makings of a true knight, even without the vows: he defended the king, and when the king was not there, he protected the people. He had protected Ser Loras that day; as he had protected Sansa any way he could, ever since.

Lord Tyrion's man Bronn met them in the stables, with one of her maids, who handed over a sack which was fastened to Shae's saddle; Lord Tyrion had assigned the dirty, plain-spoken sell-sword to protect the Queen alongside Clegane, and she could tell the two disliked each other, though she didn't trouble herself to wonder why. Men would be men; their enmities were their own to fester over. As a groom saddled her chestnut mare, and a little white mare for Shae, Sansa watched Clegane with Stranger. His enormous scarred hands patted the horse's neck, stroked his ears, rubbed his knuckles down the horse's nose, personally inspecting the horse's hooves, not trusting the grooms to care for Stranger as carefully as he did.

Her father's words sifted through her mind: _If you want to know the measure of a man, see how he treats those beneath him, not those equal to him_.

Clegane, and not a groom, clasped his hands to help her step up and into the saddle. The groom might have brought the steps; Clegane got to her first, and smoothed the overskirt of her riding gown in place when she was settled.

"Are you sure about this, Your Grace?" Shae asked quietly, in her musical accent, leaning toward her from her saddle. Her pretty face was creased with concern. "You told me you still have pain…"

"If I stopped for pain," Sansa said quietly, "I would never move again." She dug her heels in gently, and her mare trotted off at a gentle pace. She did still have pain, as she had told Shae, but she had stopped bleeding last week, and all but her worst bruises were starting to fade. As Ser Meryn's body festered, hers healed, and she took strength from that. The aches of riding were nothing to the discomfort of Joffrey's ill-use of her, when he got his little dart inside her, that was.

She had never enjoyed riding, getting sweaty and dusty; she had believed the ambling journey from Winterfell along the King's Road torture. Now, she was reminded of her riding lessons, of Arya, breathless and pink-cheeked from galloping over the moors, the scent of fresh snow and the gorse and heather they collected before returning to the castle. She had learned to ride side-saddle like a lady; now she had a regular saddle, and felt more secure in it. When Shae had confirmed what she dreaded from her symptoms of illness, she had taken to riding for hours every morning, hoping to dislodge Joffrey's hated, continued presence within her. His own Kingsguard had freed her from bearing Joffrey's child, for just a little longer.

She glanced over her shoulder, at Shae with her pretty, exotic features, jewel-bright in her rose-coloured dress and the silk cape Sansa had gifted her, the unfamiliar Bronn, and Sandor Clegane, strapped with weapons but wearing only a roughspun tunic and studded jerkin, fearsome - and comforting. The unlikeliest pairing, Shae and Sandor; and her preferred companions.

* * *

 **A.N.** : I sort of love the dynamic between Sansa and Shae, protective and sisterly and very trusting, and a gentler introduction into Sansa's more mature way of seeing the world. And as this is _Game of Thrones_ and this is my story and Shae is indeed a whore…I thought of Doreah teaching Daenerys, so…there's going to be a few Sansa/Shae scenes which I hope will feel organic to the story. I didn't like the idea of Sansa going from Joffrey being all Sansa knows before Sandor, so Shae will sort of help Sansa heal from Joffrey's abuse and give her the confidence to pursue Sandor later.


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